Dance the Dance of Life With Me, My Dear Watson
by TabbyCat33098
Summary: Sherlock teaches John how to dance. Drabble based on that little tidbit of info revealed in SoT.


A/N: *casually writes a 1k angsty Johnlock fic at 1:30 in the morning* Ahem. Um. What can I say, I seem to have fallen in love with the idea of Sherlock dancing. (I say this because there will most likely be an Anderlock dance!fic along sometime soon.) But yeah. Just a drabble that was clawing to get out. Reviews are loved! Favs are loved! Alerts are loved! Happy reading! :)

* * *

**Dance the Dance of Life With Me, My Dear Watson**

"Alright, now put your hand on my hip."

"Like this?"

"A little higher. Firmer. You don't want to radiate insecurity. Yes, like that. And now your other hand clasped in mine. No, no, turned the _other_ way."

"Christ's sakes, Sherlock, we aren't all born knowing how to slow dance perfectly!"

* * *

The air is tense between them, though Sherlock imagines they both assign different reasons to the tension. John most likely assumes it's due to the discomfort he feels at dancing with another man, another blow against his heterosexuality. It's the same reason he's standing much farther from Sherlock than he should be and keeping his hand half a millimeter above Sherlock's hip.

For Sherlock, though, it's the fact that he's dancing with John that makes the air vibrate. He never dared to imagine, even in his wildest fantasies, that something such as this could ever transpire between them. They're just friends, after all, and John is most decidedly heterosexual. He's getting married, for crying out loud!

Still, somewhere deep within his mind, in a place where his emotions lurk in the shadows, Sherlock has held on to this tiny but desperate hope that perhaps someday, he could have a future with John. A future that consists of solving crimes and blogging about them and drinking cold tea and leaving severed fingers in the fridge and always running out of milk.

The very necessity for this dancing lesson, however, crushes all those dreams, even as it fuels them. So Sherlock stops dreaming and fantasizing for a few minutes, and simply savors the moment for what it is.

* * *

"Okay, now that you've got the posture somewhat, you need to know the count."

"The count? What the bloody hell is that?"

"The count of the music, John, the _count_. When to step, when to turn, when to glide. Without count, there is no rhythm. Without rhythm, there can be no dance."

"I don't give a flying fig about the terminology, Sherlock. Just show my what to do with my feet."

"If you insist. The dance is fairly simple. Back, step, three, side, step, three. Front, step, three, side, step, three. And repeat."

"That's it? Damn, but that's easy. Why couldn't you have just said that in the first place?"

"Ah, but we haven't added the turning yet. Or the embellishments. Or the emotion. Dance is an art, John, not something to be picked up within a few moments. Do not let its outward appearance of simplicity fool you."

* * *

They've been at it for almost an hour now, and Sherlock is dreading telling John that he's pretty much mastered it. Or, well, mastered enough as is necessary for the first dance at a wedding. Because revealing that there's nothing left to teach him means that he has the ability to leave, to saunter straight out the door and never look back. This, learning how to dance, is the last thing holding John to Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn't know if he's ready yet to let it go.

John's relaxed somewhat, put at ease by Sherlock's logical, detached approach to the lesson, and no longer feels the urge to stand half a foot away from Sherlock as they spin around the cluttered living room. His hands are firm on Sherlock's body and his chest brushes up against Sherlock's as they step and turn and glide and _again!_ Sherlock commits every touch, every pinprick of heat, every small sensation to memory, so that he can keep this one last reminder of what they had before John starts a new chapter in his life.

All too soon, however, Sherlock can tell this short interlude is drawing to an end. There's only one last thing left to teach John before he's ready to impress Mary. It's taken them several lessons to get here, and all Sherlock can think is to be grateful he was able to stretch them so far. John's an incredibly fast learner; there was no real reason for this endeavour extend over such a long duration, other than Sherlock was unwilling to let it end._  
_

But all good things must come to an end, and this is no exception.

* * *

"And back, two, three, spin, two, three, step, two, three, turn, two, three. Yes, there you go. You've got it."

"Really? You were right, it _was_ harder than it looked."

"There's just one more thing."

"Christ, what else is left? You've taught me every slow dance under the bloody sun!"

"Not a dance, per se. Just the finale, the climax to which the whole sequence leads. Now, you've got me, or Mary, rather, in this position. Keep this hand in hers, and bring this around her back, to where you can support her weight on it. Let the momentum of the music guide you, and simply...dip."

"Sherlock, why are your cheeks red?"

"Are they red? Why would they be red?"

"That's what I'm asking you. You don't get _flustered_ or _easily winded._"

"I've always loved to dance. I suppose I get a little passionate when I get in the mood."

"Alright. If you say so."

* * *

John's eyes are hardly three inches from Sherlock's, their mouths the same distance apart, and Sherlock imagines he can taste the air John is breathing out. They stare into each other's eyes for a moment, until Sherlock worries that John will be able to read the _lovewantneedpassion_ in his eyes and gently pushes them until they're standing again. With a small flourish, Sherlock takes a bow, chuckling under his breath. John applauds lightly.

But there's no more reason to stay around at 221B, now that it's getting dark and John has a home to return to. A home of which Sherlock is no longer a part. There's nothing more Sherlock can do as John picks up his coat, nods to Sherlock, and walks out the door. This is his fate, and he's accepted it.

He walks to the window and peers out, just in time to see John hail a taxi. John looks up at the window briefly and waves once before opening the door of the taxi and getting inside. Sherlock's lips twitch up just slightly, and he lifts his hand a few inches to return the wave before he realizes John can no longer see him.

With heave movements, Sherlock returns to his music player and turns the music he and John were dancing to back on.

* * *

"And one, two, three, spin, two, three, turn, two, three, twirl, and_ fini_."

* * *

**FIN**


End file.
